She could not speak; she made him her obeisance with a look out of the depths of her soul.

“Then are you my subject, mademoiselle?” he demanded slyly.

She shook the tears from her lashes, and found her voice and her smile to answer his: 

“Sire, I was a true Ligueuse this morning.  But I came here half Navarraise, and now I swear I am wholly one.”

“Now, that is good hearing!” the king cried.  “Such a recruit from Mayenne!  Also is it heartening to discover that my conversion is not the only sudden one in the world.  It has taken me five months to turn my coat, but here is mademoiselle turns hers in a day.”

He had glanced over his shoulder to point this out to his gentleman, but now he faced about in time to catch his recruit looking triste again.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “you are beautiful, grave; but, as you had the graciousness to show me just now, still more beautiful, smiling.  Now we are going to arrange matters so that you will smile always.  Will you tell me what is the trouble, my child?”

“Gladly, Sire,” she answered, and dropped down a moment on her knees before him, to kiss his hand.

I marvelled that Mayenne and all his armies had been able to keep this man off his throne and in his saddle four long years.  It was plain why his power grew stronger every day, why every hour brought him new allies from the ranks of the League.  You had only to see him to adore him.  Once get him into Paris, the struggle would be over.  They would put up with no other for king.

“Sire,” mademoiselle said with hesitancy, “I shall tire you with my story.”

“I am greatly in dread of it,” the king answered, ceremoniously placing her in a chair before seating himself to listen.  Then, to give her a moment, I think, to collect herself, he turned to his companion: 

“Here, Rosny, if you ache to be grubbing over your papers, do not let us delay you.”

“I am in no haste, Sire,” his gentleman answered, unmoving.

“Which is to say, you dare not leave me alone,” the king laughed out.  “I tell you, St. Quentin, if I am not dragooned into a staid, discreet, steady-paced monarch, ’twill be no lapse of Whip-King Rosny’s.  I am listening, mademoiselle.”

She began at once, eager and unfaltering.  All her confusion was gone.  It had been well-nigh impossible to tell the story to M. de St. Quentin, impossible to tell it to this impassive M. de Rosny.  But to the King of France and Navarre it was as easy to talk as to one’s playfellow.

“Sire, I am Lorance de Montluc.  My grandfather was the Marshal Montluc.”

“Were to-day next Monday, I could pray, ‘God rest his soul,’” the king rejoined.  “But even a heretic may say that he was a gallant general, an honour to France.  He married a sister of Francois le Balafre?  And mademoiselle is orphaned now, and my friend Mayenne’s ward?”

“Yes, Sire.  I came here, Sire, to tell M. de St. Quentin concerning his son.  And though I am talking of myself, it is all the same story.  Three years ago, after the king died, M. de Mayenne was endeavouring with all his might to bring the Duke of St. Quentin into the League.  He offered me to him for his son, M. de Mar.”